Running in Circles
by blaanderstark
Summary: The Alpha Pack never wanted Derek; they never wanted anything to do with the Hales or Beacon Hills. They only wanted Stiles. warnings: non-graphic non-con, kidnapping, violence
1. Chapter 1

**BEFORE**

The rest of the school year after Jackson turns from a Kanima into a werewolf goes without an unusual occurrence, and they make it through the first two weeks of July without an incident. Gerard is still missing in action, but there's been no word from him or his other band of dirty hunters. There are no unnatural deaths or crazy animal attacks; the Sheriff comments to Stiles one evening at dinner that it's as if the mountain lions have turned tail and run for the hills. Stiles is grateful, really he is, but it's also been a lonely beginning to his summer. Allison is off with her father trying to remember how to be a decent human being while still mourning the loss of her mother. Scott is mourning the loss of Allison, and has buried himself into helping Isaac train. Lydia has Jackson and Jackson has Danny and Stiles _really_ doesn't want to think about that odd combination so he pushes it to the back of his mind.

(Derek is Derek and Stiles only sees him once that entire time until Allison returns sometime in mid-July and then all hell breaks loose.)

The Alpha pack is mostly quiet, apart from defacing Derek's front door and stays relatively hidden amongst the shadows. A part of Stiles looks and searches every new face in town for some clue, some hint that they're a part of the Alpha pack, but he never has any inkling.

Peter, unlike Derek, _is_ an incredibly present and annoying new factor in Stiles' life. He's constantly _there_, watching him from afar or "bumping" into him while getting coffee. Isaac is wary of him too, but he tells Stiles that "Derek thinks he's harmless for now." Stiles agrees, only because the Alpha pack is a much more present problem than a creepy, lurking Peter Hale.

For how creepy Peter is, he's courteous and warm towards Stiles. It unnerves him, but no matter how hard he tries to keep his distance it's as if Peter tries just as hard to stay that much closer.

"You don't think he's planning something?" Stiles asks Scott one Saturday afternoon; Isaac is on the other side of Scott, smashing his fingers down onto Scott's XBox controller with grunts and growls. "I mean it's _creepy_ that he's just lurking around like he's such a saint. Like he didn't kill a whole bunch of people."

"Derek seems to be fine with it," Scott replies; his focus, however, is mostly on the game he and Isaac are playing.

Stiles huffs, and asks the question burning in the back of his mind, knowing that he won't get a straight answer anyways, "When did you start talking to Derek?"

He doesn't stick around Scott's for much longer. He doesn't see the point in being ignored by his own best friend so he heads home to his own couch and his own TV. He makes it as far as the front door, his hand on the knob as he sticks the key in the lock before something hard and heavy hits him on the back of the head and all he sees is darkness.

* * *

Derek is annoyed. He's annoyed that the Alpha pack chooses the moment that the Argents return to town to make their first move. Scott isn't distracted, thankfully, mostly because Chris Argent and Allison stand with them to help. They don't want this new pack of werewolves here anymore than Derek and his pack do so they agree to a truce. Derek's also annoyed that the night before the Alpha pack strikes that Boyd and Erica are unceremoniously dropped on the front porch of the Hale House. They're battered and beaten so severely that they're rendered useless in the sudden attack the next day. He's not stupid; he knows the Alpha pack must have done that purposely.

Derek is also annoyed that he's sent several text messages to Stiles and the annoying teenager has yet to join them. He doesn't expect much because Stiles is a human, but he could use a little technological help and maybe someone to watch over the pack he's left back at the house. Instead he has to leave Boyd and Erica vulnerable and open; Allison eyes him warily the entire time, but she fights fearlessly.

Derek is the most annoyed at how _easy_ it was to fight off and kill the werewolves that have attacked them.

"It's like they've sent their weakest members. Do Alpha packs _have_ weak members?" Isaac asks and even Peter looks a bit confused and worried not only at the question but also at the _situation_.

"Let's get back to Erica and Boyd," Scott says, his eyes are darting around the woods as if more wolves are going to jump out at them again any moment. He instinctively grabs for Allison's hand and finds that she doesn't pull away or resist. They share a small smile. Even Chris and a few of his hunters come along so they can regroup and think about their next move.

Derek tends to Erica when he returns; her wounds are the worst and she's in and out of consciousness. She's moaning in pain when he sits down on the bed next to her, and he's startled when she grabs the hem of his black t-shirt.

"_Stiles,_" she moans; she squeezes her eyes shut and gasps in pain. He wipes her blonde hair out of her face and tries his best to soothe her, but she keeps moaning Stiles' name until she's passes out once more. Boyd isn't any better, but he only moans for Erica.

They make a plan to meet in the morning, to let Boyd and Erica recover a bit more before they try to question them about what happened. Peter is lingering in the doorway of Erica's room when Derek moves to go to bed and finds his uncle watching her sleep.

When Derek wakes up the next morning Peter has moved from the doorway to the chair in the corner of Erica's bedroom. She's still healing and in pain, but she's sleeping more comfortably. But the only thing she says in those few days while she's in and out of consciousness is Stiles's name.

* * *

The first thing that Stiles is consciously aware of is that it feels like his lungs are red hot and burning. Each breath in is like adding lighter fluid to an already raging fire. The second thing he notices is that there is a chain attached to his leg that trails across a dirty, concrete floor and is connected to the nearest wall. His arms are bound behind his back; though Stiles can't tell what it is that's holding his wrists together so uncomfortably. He only knows that it isn't metal that's cutting into his skin. There is a piece of silver tape stretched over his mouth. He notices that he isn't wearing a shirt or pants, and the pair of briefs that he _was_ wearing earlier had been switched with a pair of black boxers.

"Well hello, young Stilinski," the last thing Stiles notices is a tall man looming over him. He's smiling, but it makes Stiles shrink back against the wall. "Don't be scared, sweetheart. It's nice of you to finally join us. We've been waiting forever for you to arrive. I'm sure you have questions, but for now I'll introduce myself. My name is Andrew, but you—" he strokes the back of his hand down one of Stiles' cheeks and smiles even bigger when Stiles shivers at the touch. "—you may call me Sir."

* * *

When Erica wakens she instantly bolts into a sitting position. Her pulse increases so much that Peter and even Boyd come running into the room. Boyd looks pained because of his own injuries, but Peter looks—Derek stares at his uncle for a moment and almost laughs out loud—Peter looks terrified. Her eyes dart around the room and she takes in how Boyd looks; she runs her hands along his body to make sure his injuries are healing and that he is actually okay. She sighs in relief, but Derek can still feel her panicking.

"Where's Stiles? They're—oh god, Derek, they want Stiles. That's all they wanted. I heard—they kept talking about "the human" and I didn't—they want _Stiles_, Derek. It was never about the pack, it was never about us, it was always about Stiles."

Derek is out the door before she can even finish her sentence because everything clicks into place—the weird timing of their attack, the lack of abilities the wolves that attacked them had, the fact that he (and no one else) had been able to get ahold of him. He dials Stiles' number, hangs up when it gets to his goofy voicemail message and then tries again. He keeps trying until he reaches the Stilinski household; he finds Stiles' jeep still in the driveway, he can sense that other wolves (another pack, another wolf) have been there, and he stops when he sees Stiles' keys are still stuck in the lock of his front door. There's no sign that the Sheriff has been home in a few days, but Derek remembers Stiles saying that it wasn't all the unusual for him to sleep at the office and pull multiple shifts over a few days.

The stench of fear is strong, almost strong enough to block out Peter's scent as he arrives behind him.

"They took him," he says; it's not even a question.

"While we were fighting a small group of defenseless idiots," Derek says and slams his fist down onto the hood of his car.

"I'm angry as well, Derek, but there's no need to take out your frustrations on the car."

"Would you rather I take my frustrations out on _you_?"

"Not particularly," Peter deadpans and when Derek doesn't reply he rolls his eyes dramatically. "We know Stiles' scent."

Derek nods and runs a hand through his hair, "We'll start there. Gather the rest of the pack. I'll have Scott call Allison and Chris."

"First name basis now, hmm?" Peter questions and slides into the passenger seat of Derek's Camaro. "Are we going to be inviting him for tea and cookies next?"

Derek waits to get his revenge for the comment until they're halfway back to the Hale house before he reaches across the center console, pushes the passenger's side door open, and shoves Peter out onto the road.

* * *

The only problem is that Stiles' scent leads in six different directions; each leads to a dead end somewhere in the forest—a tree or a giant cave where it's obvious that Stiles _isn't_ being held. While calling in Chris and Allison, Scott pays a visit to the Sheriff at the station. Derek isn't sure what Scott says to Mr. Stilinski or how he puts the past year into a few minutes, but the Sheriff looks a mixture of bewildered and terrified when Scott brings him along.

"I told him."

Lydia glares at Scott, "_Everything_?"

"Everything. This is _Stiles_, okay? This is my best friend and I'll be damned if—"

"Stop it. Sheriff I apologize. Stiles didn't want you finding out that way, but Scott's right—it had to be done."

"Let's just move on and deal with finding Stiles first and dealing with Barney Fife here second," Peter suggests with the wave of a hand, and after a moment they're all gathering in the Hale living room.

* * *

Stiles can't count the days; there's a constant stream of darkness that surrounds him except when Andrew enters and exits. There's a light bulb dimmed above him that Stiles is sure this guy bought straight from a "We Sell Things From Horror Movies" store, and when he tells the man so he gets backhanded across the face. He assumes he's in a basement only because he's surrounded by concrete.

"You can scream all you want, boy, but no one can hear you."

"They're going to come for me," Stiles bites out angrily and rubs his face where Andrew's hand had connected. Andrew has long since cut the bindings from his wrists, but his leg is still attached to the wall next to him.

"Oh my sweet, sweet boy," Andrew laughs and taps Stiles' cheek softly. "You have a rather high opinion of your place within Derek Hale's pack, don't you?"

"They _care_ about me. They wouldn't just—"

"Wouldn't just what, sweetheart? Wouldn't just leave you here? My pack went to Derek with an offer. He sacrifices one of his own, and we would leave his territory alone. I guess you were the only _expendable_ one he could think of.

"Derek may be a giant asshole, but he would never do that," Stiles says, but his voice wavers and Andrew smiles.

"Then why, my dear boy, are you sitting here with me? They're never coming for you; why would they want a simple _human_ like you?"

Andrew brushes a hand over the top of Stiles' head and down the side of his face before he ascends the stairs. Stiles sits back against the wall; his mind swimming and crawling with thoughts and Andrews' words. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and silently wishes that Andrew had at least had the decency to knock him out as he left.

* * *

Days blur together easily and the next time he sees Andrew is when the man returns with a bucket of water, a rag, and a shaving kit. He sees other members of Andrew's pack when they bring him the littlest amount of food and water. It feels like it's only been a few days, but when he asks Andrew what day it is the man only smiles and continues to add soap to the bucket of water. Stiles realizes slowly that his hair has grown a bit and he has a bit of stubble growing on his face.

"You've been with us for a few weeks now," Andrew holds out the shaver to him and Stiles bites his bottom lip. "Either I can do it for you or you can do it yourself. I thought I'd give you a little bit of freedom today, my sweet boy."

Stiles shakily takes the shaver between his fingers and ignores the way Andrew smiles and says, "good boy." He shaves quickly, miraculously not nicking his chin with how shaky his hands are, and hands the item back to Andrew.

Andrew washes him with the cloth rag; he dips it into the bucket of warm, soapy water before wiping the dirt and grime of the floor from Stiles' chest and arms. He repeats the motions for Stiles' back and legs. "We're going to get you something softer than this floor to sleep on, sweetheart, to make you a bit more comfortable. I realize now that it was hasty of me to bring you here before we had it ready for you, but I just couldn't wait any longer. For now I have a few blankets we can use." Stiles' breathing hitches in the back of his throat and he stills when Andrew begins to lower his boxer down to his ankles. "As long as you obey me I will be kind to you. I don't _want_ to hurt you, my sweet boy, but if the punishment fits the crime…"

Andrew cleans him, inside and out despite Stiles whimpering and squirming away from him. His grip is tighter and stronger and even if there were no such thing as werewolves Andrew is clearly bigger and stronger than Stiles.

"I know you're scared, sweetheart, but I promise to be gentle."

* * *

The next time Stiles wakes he's lying on something soft and rectangular. There's a pillow supporting his head and he's covered in a pile of blankets. Despite what Andrew had said or promised Stiles feels terrible. He's sore and achy and he has no desire to move from his spot on the mattress unless an army of friendly faces come to his rescue.

_"No one wants you, boy. They gave you up without a single fight,"_Andrew had whispered harshly into his ear as he thrust hard into him. _"Derek was more than_happy_to give you to me."_

Stiles whimpers when he tries to pull his knees to his chest, but his ass burns and his knees hurt from kneeling so long on the concrete floor.

Andrew had grunted, _"Be a good boy and I'll be so good to you, sweetheart."_

Andrew leaves him again, a pile of skin and bones, in the middle of the floor every single night. He presses a kiss to Stiles' forehead and whispers his love and affection to him.

It isn't until the fourth time that Stiles fights back, scratching and clawing at Andrew like it means something, like it'll actually help in the long run. He mouths off, constantly, as Andrew is fucking him and when anyone brings him food or water. He's sarcastic and snarky, the old Stiles that Scott and Derek and _Peter_ would be proud of. He keeps talking, keeps his mouth moving even when no one is around to hear him, until Andrew barrels down the basement stairs and slaps him so hard across the face with a wooden paddle that he swears he sees actual stars. Andrew continues to beat him, yelling and cursing at him, mercilessly until Stiles is bloody and bruised and unable to even move his arms or legs.

"Let's play a game, boy," Andrew sneers when his assault on Stiles' body is done. "You make a single noise without my permission, and I will beat your ass bloody and raw." Andrew takes Stiles' whimper as his confirmation and then leaves him alone in the dark. It isn't until he's alone that Stiles wipes the tears from his cheeks and realizes that it's the first time he's cried with Andrew still in the room.

It's the moment that Andrew begins to chip away at Stiles' faith in his friends and family.

And the faith in his pack.

* * *

Stiles has been missing for six months with no leads and no ransom calls. Derek has searched every inch of his territory and has found a fair amount of witches and lone werewolves, but hasn't found the Alpha pack or Stiles. The Sheriff keeps searching, but even Derek can feel him giving up hope.

"The longer they have him the less likely they'll keep him human," Peter says. The words _less likely they'll keep him alive_ lingers in the air, but they're all thinking it anyways—even Derek.

* * *

Stiles doesn't believe them. Doesn't trust their words that no one is coming despite the fact that no one has yet. He thinks, hopes, _wishes_ that anyone (_anyone—_Derek, Scott, his dad, hell, he would take _Jackson or Peter_ at this point) will burst through the door at any moment, and he has to be ready, he has to be strong so he can help them, help Derek and Scott and his park fight. He doesn't believe them that it's been months despite the fact that his hair has grown out and he's had to shave more quite often.

He doesn't believe them at first.

Every time he opens his mouth a waterfall of words cascade out and circle down around him. He doesn't have anyone to talk to, so he talks to break the long, deafening silences, but when Andrew emerges from the part of the house that Stiles is not allowed in—Stiles keeps talking. Keeps disobeying. Andrew beats him until Stiles' throat is sore from screaming, his breathing ragged and uneven. Andrew smiles the entire time, and there's a weird pang of sadness that settles deep in Stiles' chest when he realizes how much that creepy smile reminds him of Peter. It hurts even more so when he realizes that he actually _misses_ Peter's creepy, smiling face.

Andrew gets some sick pleasure out of visiting him every day, taunting him with how many _minuteshoursdaysmonths_ have passed since they took him, and pushes and waits until Stiles bursts. Stiles is yelling, "fuck you" over and over again until Andrew grabs him firmly by the throat and throws him down onto the mattress. He's punished every time. He gasps and pleads and claws at him, but Andrew is too strong and Stiles is only a human.

And humans can very easily break.

* * *

Peter mopes. Erica mopes. Isaac sulks and only leaves to lure Scott out of his own hiding place. Scott holes himself up in his house and doesn't leave for weeks. Isaac comes back every afternoon, moping more than when he left. Derek watches. Watches as his pack falls apart, watches as Sheriff Stilinski runs himself ragged searching and searching. Derek's there though, to clean up everyone's messes and to make sure everyone is still in one piece after they do their damage. Lydia and Jackson and Danny are off, constantly moving, constantly sniffing out Stiles' scent. He hears from them every few days, but it's usually the same—_no news, no leads._

No Stiles.

The kids at school have forgotten, moved on and moved forward, but his pack is stuck in place. Stuck where they were exactly one year ago to the day. Derek doesn't see anyone except Isaac the entire weekend. He watches him leave the Hale house, bounding down the front steps and towards town. Derek follows him just in case. _Just in case it happens again, just incase,_ he tells himself. Isaac isn't stupid so he probably _knows_, but if he does he doesn't say anything when Derek returns to the house only a few minutes behind him.

They're still mourning; still hurting, but Derek needs his pack strong and as much as he hates to admit it—they need to move on.

* * *

Stiles doesn't speak unless Andrew gives permission. He bites his bottom lip hard and fights every instinct he's ever had and stays silent until Andrew gives him the okay. He doesn't move a muscle until Andrew says that it's okay.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Andrew says softly and kisses him. "It's okay. I want to hear it."

Stiles cries out and whimpers but doesn't claw or scratch or push Andrew away. He does what he _can_ do now, what he's allowed to—he presses his face into the soft pillow underneath his face and cries. He calls him Sir, softly, when he's allowed to speak and responds when spoken to and asked questions, but he spends his days and nights without Andrew and his pack in complete silence. He spends his days counting the number of bugs that crawl along the base of the walls and drifts in and out of sleep.

He's slowly forgetting; slowly forgetting his life before _this_, before the Alpha pack (former Alpha pack, he corrects in his head, they've all splintered off and spread across the country now leaving only a small group of Alpha werewolves) took him from his family. The memories of his mother are fading, full of blurry edges and quick fuzzy moments that he isn't entirely sure are correct anymore. He can barely even remember his family, _his pack_, anymore, can barely picture Lydia and Derek and Peter's creepy smile.

"You're my family now, boy," Andrew growls.

* * *

He's been there a year, six months, and five days. Andrew still taunts him with that information. "Everyday is a day of celebration. Everyday is a new celebration of how long I've had you, " he tells him when he's finished using him as a rag doll. Andrew collapses down onto the mattress next to him and sighs. "I think you're ready to sleep upstairs, my love."

Stiles eyes him warily, watching Andrew's eyes for the telltale signs that it's a test or a trick to trip him up and earn himself a beating; something he hasn't endured in weeks. He's been good. He's obeyed, submitted. He's been _good,_ he chants in his head, panicking as Andrew's eyes roam.

"You may speak, boy."

"I—" Stiles stammers, not sure of what Andrew wants him to say. "O-of course, Sir."

Andrew hums and kisses him quick before retrieving his own clothes, "We will clean you before you come upstairs. We must have you looking your best."

* * *

Stiles regrets it almost immediately. He's racing as fast as he can in no particular direction through the woods over rocks and fallen trees. He stumbles on a pile of sticks, falling face first into a large pile of leaves, and scratches his hands. He wipes his palms on the sweatpants Andrew had given him and brushes the leaves from his matted and dirty hair before he sets off again. He's not even sure _where_ he is let alone how far it is to the road. But he runs.

He regrets it though. Despite being moved _into_ the actual household, Stiles' feet are still bound together, shackled just far enough so he can walk around easily. Running isn't as easy, and as soon as he's passed the edge of the compound he knows he isn't going to get very far like this. Not once they realize that he's gone.

_He_ just needs to _find someone, anyone._He can hear their howls in the distance and the forest floor rumbles beneath his feet so fast that he doesn't even get the chance to see them coming from behind. He's pushed head first into the nearest tree and then everything goes completely dark.

* * *

Derek gets a whiff. Just a small taste of Stiles' scent. It's only for a moment and it has him racing through the woods and has Peter instantly worried for his nephew's sanity.

"Stiles is _dead_, Derek," Peter tells him when he returns, arms crossed firmly over his chest. He isn't mad, he repeats it over and over when the kicked puppy look crosses Derek's face; he's only worried. "You need to stop this."

It isn't until Scott skids across the ground in front of them at full speed seconds later, eyes wide and shiny with tears, exclaiming, "It was Stiles. I—" that Derek turns to Peter, his eyes filled full of _I told you so._

They resume their search. It's almost two years. The pack hasn't healed, but they deal with day to day life. The Sheriff retires early and settles into a routine—the diner in town for an early breakfast and the McCalls for dinner, almost like clockwork. But he continues to search, spreading further and further out from town as time goes on. Derek still keeps an eye on him for Stiles' sake, but for himself as well. He finds Derek sitting on the roof on evening, perched against Stiles' dark window, and invites him inside. It's easier then; they can search together and include the Sheriff (ex-Sheriff, Derek reprimands because every time he calls Jonathan Stilinski "Sheriff" the man glares at him like he's been insulted).

* * *

Stiles' ass is on fire, red and angry and bloody. Every time he passes out, Andrew waits until he's awake again before continuing his assault, his punishment for trying to escape and run away. He's never seen Andrew this angry. The beatings, Stiles thinks, go on for days. When Andrew is tired another pack member steps forward to take his place. By the time they're finished Stiles is curled into a ball against the wall. There's no blankets, no pillows, no mattress. They've taken his clothes and what little food and water that he had left hidden.

They leave him for days alone and bleeding in the dark. Andrew must hear his cries because he brings him water, just a few sips, but it's enough for him to breathe out and chant "_thank you thank you thank you_." He's surprised when Andrew smiles, doesn't beat him for speaking without permission, and the next time he wakes there's a blanket laying at the foot of the stairs.

It isn't until a few hours later that it dawns on Stiles that this is probably what Andrew had wanted all along.

* * *

There's a spell surrounding the house. It isn't keeping the pack's wolves from coming or going, but no one from outside packs can seem to cross the line. Lydia scoffs when they tell her what they've found; she already knows she can fix it, but demands that they take her with so she can investigate for herself.

Derek doesn't want to wait. They are technically on Hale territory, and his wolf especially doesn't want to wait to chase them away, but Lydia insists that these spells take time. She's practiced, but she's no expert, and she wants to get this right.

They surround the house three days later, Danny brandishing a shotgun and Allison clutching her bow. The rest of the pack is waiting for Lydia to finish her own spell, one that will reverse whatever barrier spell the wolves have somehow managed to conjur. When the invisible "walls" go down Derek can smell it—two witches, six wolves. One human. Lydia stays outside, Jackson growls at Danny to _stay with her or else I'll have your balls._

Derek drags several wolves out by their necks and kills them, _slaughters them_, on their own muddy front lawn. She isn't entirely used to it yet, she doesn't think she ever will be, but she's dealt with it more than Danny has by now and forcefully turns him in the other direction before he can see too much.

* * *

"S-Stiles?" Scott stops dead at the foot of the stairs. He can smell the blood, the urine, and the foul stench of sweat and—he swallows hard and steps_backwards_into the stairs. A pair of strong hands, _Derek's_, catches him before he falls.

"They're all de—" Derek stops mostly because Scott isn't listening and while it would normally annoy him his own nose takes over, and he follows Scott's line of sight. "Get Lydia." Derek pushes Scott towards the stairs, but he doesn't move until Derek turns back and yells it once more, "Get Lydia_now_, Scott!"

Stiles whimpers at the noise, flinches back against the wall, and shivers violently at the cold air coming down through the open basement door. Derek steps forward to pick up the blanket, but Stiles presses himself further against the wall.

"It's okay, Stiles," Derek says as softly as he can; he's cautious and careful because it's been _two years_ and god only knows what they have done to him. Lydia is pushing past him, and he stands behind her awkwardly holding onto the blanket. She drops to her knees, at Stiles' level, and only scoots forward a bit more when Stiles _doesn't_ move away. She's not harsh or angry or sarcastic, and if anything Derek has never been more proud of her being _pack_ in this moment.

"—Derek?" She's looking at him, her arm outstretched towards him for a few moments more before he realizes that she wants the blanket that he's holding. "Don't worry I'm sure Danny has more of these in his trunk. And Derek will find you some clothes to wear so you don't freeze to death, won't you, Derek?"

He hadn't even noticed that Stiles wasn't wearing any clothes until now. He nods once and quickly exits the basement. Scott is sitting in the hall, back pressed against the wall with his head resting on the palms of his hands. Boyd, Erica, and Isaac look panicked and worried.

"He won't tell us what happened," Erica says quickly, her voice soft. "He won't—"

"Clothes. Get clothes," Derek says and he can hear Peter circling the perimeter. Derek feels crowded, but at the same time he feels incredibly whole being surrounded by his _entire_ pack. Isaac runs towards the direction of what Derek thinks are probably the bedrooms, but he's still faced with the rest of a very confused pack. "Stiles," he says breathlessly when Isaac returns with a shirt, a pair of pants, underwear, and socks. "It's Stiles. _Find me shoes,_" he growls out and every werewolf in a five-foot radius scatters in different directions to look for a pair of shoes.

* * *

Getting Stiles into the clothing that Isaac finds isn't the hard part. Lydia helps him, and the way he leans into her makes Derek's heart ache in ways that he can't even describe. The hard part is convincing Stiles to leave the basement. He shakes his head violently, eyes wide and fearful, but he doesn't say a word. He pushes Lydia away gently and backs against the nearest wall.

When Lydia _finally_ coaxes him from the basement, he shakes his head and pushes her away _hard_ when she tries to lead him towards the front door. She skitters back onto the floor at the force of his shove. His eyes widen in fear again at what he's done. He drops down next to her and lays his head on her lap and cries. He opens his mouth to speak, to say _sorry sorry sorry_, but Andrew isn't there to tell him to speak and so he closes his eyes and waits for the beating.

She swipes a hand through his hair, gently massaging her fingers against his scalp and whispers to him softly to calm him down. He's still shaking when she's done, but the tears have ceased and he's clutching to her thigh tightly like she's a lifeline.

"I called my dad," Allison says softly. "He's going to see Mr. Stilinski right now."

"We need to get him to a hospital," Lydia says, her fingers still combing through Stiles' hair. Stiles squeezes Lydia's thigh. "I won't leave you; I promise."

* * *

When Lydia makes a promise, she damn well keeps it no matter what a group of police, doctors, or nurses say. She's defiant and threatening with her words as Stiles clutches her hand in his own. He won't meet anyone's eyes and he won't answer their questions so Lydia fills them in on what she knows. Stiles' father barrels into the waiting room half an hour later and Derek can hear his heart beating faster and faster once he sees Derek and the blood down the front of his shirt.

Derek looks down at himself, "It's not mine." And then he realizes, "It's not his either. Lydia is with him. He won't let anyone else near him." When Jonathan is finally allowed back to see him—_he's my son, god damn it, and if you don't let me see him there will be hell to pay!_—Lydia is sitting by his hospital bed and holding his hand. She smiles up at him softly; Stiles is sleeping and he looks so peaceful despite the bruises covering his face.

"They sedated him, but I promised I wouldn't leave him," Lydia brushes the hair from his face with a sad smile. "He probably wouldn't know, but I don't want to chance it right now."

He doesn't let the tears fall until he touches his son's face, and feels that Stiles is real and alive. He reaches out to squeeze Lydia's shoulder and whispers, "Thank you."

"Do you want to sit with him while I go clean up? He should be out for a while so I don't think he'll—I don't _want_—"

"We'll be fine for a few minutes," he nods and she gives Stiles one last look before stepping into the hall.

* * *

She finds the pack huddled in the waiting room after she cleans up and changes into the clothes that Jackson brought for her. She hugs Allison and keeps holding her close after.

"They told Stiles' dad all about his injuries," Scott says softly. "But he wouldn't tell us what they said."

"He's going to be fine. He was lucky that there were no internal bleeding. Broken bones, cuts and burns and bruises, but no ruptured or punctured organs," Lydia repeats what the doctors told her, and she holds Derek's gaze when she doesn't say the rest. "He'll have to stay for observation, but his dad should be able to take him home in a few days."

"We found Stiles," Allison says softly, buries her face into Lydia's neck, and let's out a heart-wrenching sob. "Lydia, _we found_ _Stiles_."


	2. Chapter 2

_Just a note: there will be a part 2 only because it just made sense to divide this part into two. I apologize if the formatting is wonky, I despise FFnet's formatting with a passion, and as always, it's easier to head over to my AO3 account and read it there._

**AFTER**

**Part 1**

The doctors tell them that, at least physically, that Stiles is fine considering everything he's been through. Luckily there are no major arteries or damaged organs to fix. His broken arm and cracked ribs will heal with time, and soon enough the cuts and bruises will fade away. They _are _worried about his mental stability. He hasn't said a word and hasn't made many noises since they brought him into the emergency room, not even to Lydia whom Stiles can't help but feel at least a little bit safe around. Stiles clings to Lydia when they leave the hospital and head towards the Hale house; even the elder Stilinski thinks it'll be much safer there with Stiles surrounded by a group of werewolves.

Lydia tells him that Andrew is dead, as he was the last wolf to have their throat torn out by Derek, but it doesn't ease the nightmares or the terrifying thought that he'll come back more angry than ever. His head is filled with constant looped images of Andrew hovering over him, Andrew beating him, Andrew coming back for him, Andrew slaughtering Stiles' entire family and all of his friends.

They've fixed up the Hale house in his absence. It doesn't look like a burnt out shell anymore, and Stiles doesn't understand why the change doesn't shock him.

* * *

Scott's mom doesn't come over until Stiles has had a few days to settle in. She smiles at him softly as she crosses the room and says, "Oh sweetheart, it's so good to see you."

Stiles skitters back and hits the wall behind him; one minute he's standing next to Lydia in the kitchen, and the next minute he's curled up in a ball in the corner of the room. He feels Lydia next to him, her voice soothing and warm and full of love as she coaxes him away from the rest of the group and towards his bedroom.

No one dares to call him sweetheart again lest they face the wrath of Lydia Martin.

* * *

He has his own room, furnished and decorated in Lydia's idea of what Stiles would like, and he has to admit that it _does_ remind him of the old bedroom at his dad's house. He doesn't spend much time _sleeping_ there, though, because the nightmares only increase and Stiles finds himself more often than not sneaking across the hall and curling up next to Lydia. If Jackson cares or is angry at the action he doesn't mention it out loud. It's a big bed and Stiles is pack; after being separated from him for so long Jackson doesn't really care _where_ Stiles sleeps as long as he's safe and sound.

The only problem is Stiles has come to rely on it. He takes his leave every night, silently readying himself for bed; every night he _does_ fall asleep on top of his own bed. The nightmares have plans of their own, and once he's caught his breath and calmed down enough to move, he finds himself climbing under the covers next to Lydia. She lets him curl into a ball against her back as if it's nothing out of the ordinary.

He doesn't have nightmares when he's next to Lydia. He falls asleep, curled along the warmth of her back and settles in for a nice, deep sleep.

Jackson and Lydia look at colleges closer to home rather than the ones they had chosen on the other side of the country; they're not sure if they could leave even if they tried. Because the tour is two days long Lydia and Jackson rent a hotel room for the night.

"It'll be _fine_, Lyd," Jackson tells her as he packs his own duffel bag with a few days worth of clothes. "Derek and Scott can handle it for a few days."

"It's not _handling_, _Jackson_," Lydia growls and for a second he forgets that she's _not_ a werewolf.

"I didn't mean it like that and you know it," he says, anger boiling in the pit of his stomach. "He sleeps in here every night because you make the monsters go away."

Lydia considers staying, considers just sending Jackson to pick up all of their information and school stuff, but when she says this to Stiles he grabs her hand and pulls her towards the front door. It's weird, not hearing him speak non-stop, but she's getting used to understanding _this _Stiles and what his gestures mean.

* * *

Stiles is running through the forest. His heart, despite the fact that he's terrified and _running away from werewolves_, is surprisingly calm and steady. His lungs are on fire and his legs are sore, but his heart is slow and steady.

_Slow and steady wins the race,_ his mother says once, and somehow he thinks this isn't what she had meant.

He's running out of time and the end of the forest keeps expanding further, and it's like he can't reach the end no matter how far he runs. He's pulled from the dream too quickly—_just a dream just a dream just a dream—_and finds himself in a pitch-black room and all alone. Even though he opens his mouth wide the screams and cries die in the back of his throat, but he lets the angry and frustrated tears fall.

He finds himself standing in the doorway of Lydia's bedroom for a full ten minutes staring at an empty bed before realizing that Lydia and Jackson are gone for the night. He would never admit it if pressed, but he's gotten just as used to sleeping next to Jackson as he has Lydia. He tries to curl up in his usual spot, but the sheets are cold and it's lonely without them lying next to him. He has another nightmare, worse than the one before, and he has to bite into his pillow to stop his screams and whimpers.

It's like Stiles' feet have a mind of their own. He climbs out of Lydia's bed, remaking it as quickly as he can so it looks nice for when she returns and stops at Derek's open bedroom door on the way back to his room. He stares for a moment, standing in the darkness of the hallway, before Derek stirs and rolls over to face him.

"Stiles?" Derek blinks away the sleep, his voice rough but concerned, "Nightmare?"

Stiles blinks, he's terrified, but he doesn't move. Can't move. Stiles nods, it's the first real communication he's had with the alpha, but he still can't look anyone—_him, especially him—_except Lydia, in the eye. Derek slides over to the other side of the bed and pulls down the covers; an offering, plain and simple. Stiles hesitates; there's a part of him that _knows_ Derek would never hurt him, not on purpose, but the thought of anyone except Lydia touching him is terrifying. Stiles lays on his stomach, a habit from 'living' with Andrew, but his mind is running on high and he can't seem to settle down no matter what he does or tries.

He's still shaking and his heart is still thumping hard against his ribs from the nightmares, but when Derek reaches over to rub Stiles' shoulder blades he relaxes against Derek's hand. He follows Derek's breathing inhale for exhale and soon they're both fast asleep. In the light of the morning he still can't meet Derek's eyes and he flinches away when Derek gets too close during the day, but instead of climbing into bed with Lydia when she and Jackson return the next night he curls up next to Derek. They match each other's breathing until they're both asleep.

Lydia never says anything, but Stiles still worries over and over again that he's disappointing or upsetting her in some way.

* * *

Stiles goes to therapy. Lydia accompanies him to the office, but she's not allowed to go inside. It makes Stiles panic because Dr. Messing is a tall, robust man with thick green glasses, and while he _seems_ like a giant teddy bear, Stiles is completely terrified during every session. He never says a word and never makes eye contact, and when they leave and walk out to the parking lot, Lydia can feel his entire body violently shaking next to hers.

She argues with Derek. Argues with Stiles' father. Argues because it's not working, and she's sure this is only making Stiles feel _worse_, but they insist that he needs to go anyway. They switch doctors five more times—where Dr. Messing was tall and fat, Dr. Hiller is short and skinny and female. She reminds him too much of the only female alpha in the Alpha pack who would bring him food and water. He doesn't even make it into the session before he's running back to the car. Then comes Maureen, _call me Maureen, Stiles_, who doesn't seem to understand that Stiles _doesn't_ speak despite the extensive case file notes that she's given beforehand and spends the entire session trying to goad him into saying something.

Dr. O'Connors is just as quiet and they stare at one another for fifty-five minutes in silence before he takes Lydia aside and calls Stiles a lost cause. She's a little more than offended and possibly knees him in the balls before they leave his office. Dr. Tate and Dr. Fulton both last a full week, sessions filled with his silence and their soft voices. They seem harmless and kind, but Stiles still shakes after each and still doesn't speak a word.

Stiles wants to talk to _Lydia_, he honestly does, but he doesn't know how; he doesn't even know where to start. She hugs him after his last session with Dr. Fulton and whispers softly into his ear, "I'm sorry, Stiles, I'm so sorry. I love you." He wants to hug her back, wants to say _I love you, too, Lyd,_but he can't get his brain to mouth functioning to work.

He's gaining much needed weight that he hadn't been able to afford to lose in the first place, and slips back into his old routine of watching every move his dad makes—making sure he's exercising and sleeping and eating _healthy foods_ rather than the cheeseburgers from the diner in town. Lydia smiles at him when he's doing this, and he thinks it's because she's seeing old bits of the Stiles she used to know. Lydia tells Jackson later that it's because she sees that Stiles _is_ still in there, caring, loving, kind and generous Stiles; that despite what he may think, Andrew didn't take everything away from him. That _Stiles _is still there underneath the hard shell of this hurt and abused boy.

* * *

Derek wakes to pans clanking downstairs one Saturday morning and when he pushes into the kitchen to investigate, two things happen—he doesn't scare Stiles (he doesn't even _startle_ him, Derek thinks with a twinge of pride and wonder), and Stiles is making breakfast with Erica. They're not speaking, but they're standing next to each other at the counter and Erica is all smiles and flowing blonde hair. Derek knows from experience that Erica _doesn't_ know how to cook, but he also knows that Stiles _does_.

"Stiles is teaching me how to cook," Erica tells him and she's _beaming_ for the first time in weeks. Derek can see and smell the happiness and excitement radiating off of her in waves. It's also the first time Stiles has had interaction with one of the betas without Lydia present. To be honest Derek is a little stunned. Incredibly and immensely proud, but stunned.

"Be careful with this one, Stiles; she set off the smoke alarm the last time she boiled a pot of water," Derek says with a grin in Erica's direction.

"That was _one time_, Derek," Erica whines like a small child. "How was I supposed to know that it was going to overflow?"

"You filled it all the way to the top!" Derek yells before he can stop himself; Erica knows it's in a joking manner, but Stiles doesn't deal well with loud arguments or noises. He looks to Stiles, excepting to find him cowering and shaking in fear, but the boy's lips are upturned into a tentative but small smile.

It isn't much, and Stiles still doesn't say a word through the rest of the exchange, but it's a small step in the right direction.

* * *

"When you were gone it felt so weird being here," Derek can hear Lydia speaking the second he steps inside after a long day of chasing Scott, Erica, and Isaac around in the front yard. He can see the two of them, curled up on the couch, Stiles tucked against her side. His eyes are open and he's looking out the large front window with a perfect view of the pack playing in the front yard, wrestling and laughing and so carefree. "Everyone was so angry and lonely. And Allison was gone and then you were gone, and it felt weird being in Derek's burnt down old house."

Derek hears Stiles hum, actually _hum_, in response to Lydia's voice and he practically falls back from the shock of hearing it.

"Derek thought rebuilding the house would bring us all back together, but I don't think it worked until we found you. You made everyone complete and whole again, Stiles."

* * *

Stiles is helping wash the dishes after dinner; Derek is standing beside him washing the dishes and placing them on the dish rack so Stiles can dry them. They're listening to an old Christmas album that Stiles's dad brought over for some holiday cheer when the glass slips from Stiles' hands to the floor. He expects to pay for his mistake and drops to his knees and curls in on himself, waiting for Derek to deliver the painful blows he knows are coming.

Lydia's at the door in a heartbeat with the rest of the pack following behind her, but Derek waves her back.

"Stiles," Derek says softly and rakes a hand through Stiles' hair softly. He's watched Lydia do it enough times to know the effect it has on the younger boy. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Derek shoves the broken glass out of the way before sitting down on the tiled kitchen floor. He waits, only a moment, before Stiles crawls forward and lays his head on Derek's lap. Stiles is crying, the thick, heavy tears cascading down his cheeks and splashing down onto the kitchen floor as he whispers, "I'm _sorry_. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

Lydia's eyes are wide and she's clutching Jackson's hand painfully, harder than any werewolf ever has, "_Derek._"

* * *

He doesn't speak again. Derek starts to think that maybe he imagined or dreamed it, but every so often Lydia reminds him that Stiles _is_ getting better. She keeps telling him, over and over again, that _their_ Stiles is coming back to them. He's never doubted her before, and he thinks it's probably not smart to start doubting her now.

It's just the three of them in the living room watching some insane Jerry Springer rerun on the television when Derek eyes the back of Stiles' head. His hair has grown since they had gotten him back, and Derek can't even remember a time when he's seen Stiles's hair this long before.

"Hey Stiles," Derek calls softly. "We should do something about your hair. It's getting kind of long in the back."

Stiles stiffens immediately at the mention of his hair, Lydia eyes them both carefully, but Stiles jerkily nods his head in agreement. His eyes, however, betray his answer, but Lydia and Derek silently agree to push the issue.

When they're set up in the kitchen Stiles eyes the razor with a look of anger and malice. He only pulls away and whimpers when Lydia brings her arm up to start. He crawls under the kitchen table, the furthest place away from them in the room, and presses his body against the wall.

"Stiles?"

Derek doesn't crawl in after him, but he does crouch down next to the table and looks at Stiles' shaking form.

"You have the _right_ to say _no_ when you don't want something, Stiles, okay? You know we're not going to hurt you or get angry because you don't want something that we do. Stiles." Stiles uncurls but doesn't move away from the wall. "You don't have to say anything. You just have to shake your head or stomp your feet in protest and we'll _stop._Lydia isn't Andrew. I'm not Andrew. Scott and Isaac and Erica aren't Andrew. We will _stop _when you tell us _no_."

Derek pulls the table out, the legs screeching against the kitchen floor, and holds out his hand to help Stiles stand up. Derek rubs a hand, reassuringly across Stiles's back, and the younger boy lets out a long sigh and his entire body relaxes.

Lydia holds up the razor to show Stiles and asks, "Do you want to—"

"No."

Lydia almost drops the razor to the floor, her mouth dropping open, in shock.

"No. No. No. No. No. No," Stiles murmurs softly, clutching at the front of Derek's t-shirt and buries his face into Derek's chest and sobs. "_No."_


	3. Chapter 3

**AFTER**

**Part 2**

I wanna ask for direction  
But I don't dare to disturb  
I got a thing with affections  
Yeah, that's why I'm walking alone

He still isn't the same talkative, overly energetic Stiles that they all once knew. He's still skittish when Peter and Scott get into arguments, he still sleeps next to Derek to keep the nightmares away, and despite their breakthrough in the kitchen Stiles really doesn't say much, not like he used to. Stiles and Derek watch mindless TV together on the couch, their shoulders and legs just barely touching each other, eyes glued to the TV except for when anyone enters the living room.

Lydia smiles at them both when she enters through the kitchen, and sometimes just to get a laugh out of Stiles (and sometimes from Derek) she worms her way between the two of them with a satisfied smirk. Slowly she's inching Stiles further and further out of the shell Andrew had shoved him into.

But so is Derek.

* * *

Stiles is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling as he listens to the water run in Derek's bathroom. He knows Derek's routine now; he showers quickly because there are half a dozen other people who want hot water. Then he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and brushes his teeth. Stiles smiles at the thought because he had never thought of Derek as someone who brushed his teeth or showered inside of a house before.

_They're never coming for you._

The shower shuts off and he can hear Derek humming in the bathroom as he gets ready for bed, another odd routine Derek has. When he emerges Derek is standing under the frame of the bathroom door wearing a pair of pajamas and a black t-shirt. He smiles at Stiles before climbing into bed next to him. It's part of their comfortable routine.

"Bathroom's all yours."

Stiles bites his lip, his own habit since living with Andrew, scoots closer to Derek so he doesn't have to speak too loudly, and asks, "What were you humming?"

Derek jumps, a little startled by Stiles' voice and by the question, but smiles softly at the memory, "My mom used to sing it to me and Laura when we were kids."

_Why would they want a simple human like you?_

"Why—" Stiles starts, but shakes his head and rolls onto his stomach so he can go to sleep instead.

"Stiles—"

"It's not important," he whispers into his pillow, burrowing down against the mattress below him. _I'm not important._

* * *

The next morning Derek finds himself waking up with an armful of Stiles. For all the times that they've slept in the same bed the only time Derek has ever touched Stiles was by rubbing his back to help him relax. The younger man is shaking from head to toe, his face buried against Derek's chest. He can smell the tears invading his senses, can feel them soaking into the front of his t-shirt too. "It's okay. You're safe," he whispers into the shell of Stiles' ear and rubs a hand against Stiles' back gently, trying to calm him.

Once Stiles is relaxed and asleep again, Derek lies awake, staring at the ceiling above him. Even though he can smell her and the food coming from a mile away, he's a bit surprised to see _Lydia_ smiling at them from the doorway a few hours later, a tray with coffee and food balanced expertly on one hand, "He's still sleeping," Derek says softly as she sets the tray down onto the dresser next to the bed.

"He's been crying," she says, cupping Stiles' cheek with her hand and sighing. "Has he been having nightmares again?"

"Not for a while. I think—" Derek shakes his head softly and sighs. "I'll talk to him about it. I think I know why."

"Derek," Lydia says cautiously eying her alpha.

"I can handle it."

She huffs at this and says, "It's _not—"_

"Not handling anything, I know. Leave it Lydia. Go make sure everyone gets to school, okay?"

"Yes, _mom,_" Lydia says with a smirk, planting a kiss to Stiles' forehead and then one to Derek's cheek. "Oh don't make that face. You love it."

"If I'm the mom, are you the dad?" he asks. He can hear her laughing all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Stiles stirs against his chest, his nose obviously recognizing the smell of coffee, and Derek smiles against the top of Stiles' head when he hears both of their stomachs rumbling. "How are you feeling?" Derek asks and Stiles shrugs once he properly sits up to sip from his mug of coffee. "Did you have a bad dream?" Stiles nods, but doesn't respond otherwise to the question. "Do you remember what it was about?" Stiles nods again, not letting himself meet Derek's eyes. "Do you—do you want to talk about it?"

Stiles hands Derek his mug, scoots closer to the edge of the bed, and stands quickly, "No."

"Stiles." Derek says softly and Stiles stops at the door, hand already on the doorknob but not turning to face him, "I just want you to feel like you can talk to me. If you need to."

* * *

Stiles spends more time with his dad instead of with the pack during the next week. He curls up on his dad's office chair at the station and reads case file after case file until he can barely see straight.

"You know I don't want you to read those, kid," his dad says from the other side of his desk with a sad look.

"The wife did it," Stiles says softly. He closes the file and hands it back to Jonathan Stilinski.

"_Stiles…_" Jonathan sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. "Okay, why do you think it's the wife?"

And for the first time in _months_ Jonathan sees his son smile up at him, and he revels in hearing Stiles speak more than just a few words. Stiles is relaxed leaning against his dad's shoulder as he points out the evidence in the case and how it fits with his theory.

Later Derek brings them dinner and when it finally gets too late Jonathan shoos them both towards Derek's Camaro, "Go. You look like you're dead on your feet, son. Go home and get some rest." He hugs Stiles to his chest, kissing the top of his head like he's still a little boy. "Love you, kiddo."

"Love you," Stiles whispers back to his dad before letting Derek guide him into the passenger seat.

When they finally make it back to the Hale house fifteen minutes later Stiles is practically sleep walking as Derek guides him up the front porch stairs and through the front door with a hand pressed gently against Stiles' lower back.

"My dad loves me," Stiles mumbles sleepily into his pillow once they are both settled into bed. Stiles reaches across the middle of the bed between them, grabs a fistful of Derek's t-shirt in his hand, and pulls him closer to Stiles' side of the bed. Derek is reluctant at first, but when he resists Stiles only tugs harder.

"Me too," Derek whispers once he can feel that Stiles is relaxed and fast asleep next to him.

* * *

"He can't fall in love with you right now," Lydia says, startling Derek out of his thoughts while he's leaning against the porch stairs railing watching Scott and Isaac wrestle in the front yard.

"I—What? Isaac is like my _brother_."

"I'm talking about Stiles you idiot," Lydia huffs angrily. "He's still scared of his own shadow. I love that you're finally pulling your head out of your ass and admitting your feelings for him, but he couldn't reciprocate his feelings for you even if he wanted to."

"I _know that_," Derek grumbles. "It's going to take a while for him to get anywhere _near_ where he used to be, but—But I'm willing to wait for him."

"You're willing to wait for him," Lydia says blandly and stares at him, not like he's nuts or lost his mind, but like he's the most beautiful person on the planet. It's confusing and it makes Derek's head spin, but he levels her gaze anyway. "Well... _Good_. He's comfortable around you."

"He's still scared of me though."

"He's scared of _everyone_, Derek. He may be doing better, but he still _thinks_ like he's with Andrew. He still feels like he has to be cautious, no matter who he's around."

"Maybe that's a good thing," Derek says softly, but Lydia touches his shoulder and squeezes hard. It isn't enough to hurt, because of his own werewolf strength, but he winces at the sudden contact.

"You would _never_ hurt him," she says through narrowed eyes. Her eyes soften, however, when she sees how pained he looks. "I know you wouldn't, Derek. You've done _nothing_ but protect him since the day you've met him, even when you didn't really know him."

He nods, slowly, but there's still a part of Derek that doesn't believe her. That, even if he doesn't mean to, he'll end up hurting Stiles anyways.

* * *

"I can't… give you what you want," Stiles whispers from his side of the bed, only a few months later. Their relationship doesn't change, but Stiles clings to Derek more now when danger is near. The room is pitch black and Stiles' eyes are closed. "I know—I know you want… that."

"I just want you to be happy and to feel safe," Derek replies softly, reaching out a hand to rub Stiles' back.

"You're not Andrew."

"I know."

"No I—I have to say that to myself. That you're not Andrew. That Scott isn't Andrew. That Isaac isn't Andrew," Stiles says and Derek can feel the anguish rolling off him in waves.

"I don't blame you," Derek says and Stiles opens his eyes in the dark to stare at him silently, watching him carefully. "He hurt you. He _hurt you_, Stiles. Anyone would be scared."

"You wouldn't."

"Would you ever hurt me? On purpose?"

Stiles furrows his eyebrows together first, then, "_No._"

"That's all I need to know. I just want you to be happy."

"Me too," Stiles whispers, letting Derek pull him closer.

* * *

They're fine, at least, for a few weeks. Stiles has nightmares, and Derek finds Stiles curled up against his chest with tear stained cheeks in the morning light, but they're fine all things considered. Derek helps him work through the nightmares, pulls him from the depths of the worst with soft words and touches. Even though they don't actually talk about them in detail Derek can sense that Stiles wants to say something, wants to ask questions, but he doesn't. Instead he curls himself against Derek's chest every night and shakes until Derek is the one who helps calm him down. It's routine and easy.

It only lasts for so long though.

* * *

"Why?" Stiles asks, looking out across the front lawn at the rest of the pack playing. When he turns to sneak a look at Derek, Stiles sees that he is looking at him, confused.

"Why what?"

"Why did—" Stiles starts, his voice is soft and with a human's ears Derek wouldn't have heard what he had started to say. Stiles' eyes are filling with tears and Derek can see that he's biting his lip so that they won't fall. "Why did you let him take me? He said—he said you made a deal."

"We _never_, Stiles. We never _let_ _him_ take you."

"He said that you didn't want me and I didn't want to believe it. I didn't, but it- it started to make sense. Why would you want a weak human around when you have Allison and Lydia and _Danny_? You don't need me."

"Of course we need you. Lydia, Danny, and Allison are all great at what they do, but no one is you. Your ideas, your brain is so much more unique than theirs. You think outside the box. No one else can do that except for you. We were _lost_ without you there."

"You didn't let them take me? You promise?"

"We _didn't_, Stiles, we didn't. If Andrew told you that—" Derek growls, but Stiles doesn't step back in fear so Derek tugs him forward into his arms. "It wasn't true."

"I dream about him all the time, but sometimes it's you. Sometimes it's you pushing me to him, telling him to take me. Telling him you don't want me." Stiles sobs against his chest, voice broken and tired, "Promise?"

"I promise, Stiles, I promise we didn't _let_ him take you."

I lie, I pretend 'til I'm almost certain  
It's a beautiful world


End file.
